


Save

by shafau



Series: Stuff and Things [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shafau/pseuds/shafau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic request for Decepticonsensual - 'Save', Prowl</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save

**Author's Note:**

> Set on Cybertron, after MTMTE #1.

He stared blankly at the screen, watching as the cursor blinked.

Anyone watching would see only the Autobot second in command at his desk. Back straight; joints at the ideal 90-degree angle posture to maximise efficiency whilst minimising strain; optics intent on the screen.

The slightly pursed lips and the occasional twitch of a sensor panel would be significant to only a small number of people - a number that had slowly dwindled over the years, and showed no sign of increasing.

The file on the screen would, when saved, officially reduce that number by one more.

He found he had a curious reluctance to press that last key, to send the data spiralling into the Autobot databases. There was an air of finality to the gesture that didn't sit quite right.

Even after four million years of simmering resentment, there were things, people, who were - not constants, because that implied a stability and lack of change that was completely inaccurate - but at least, constant fixtures in his life. Assignments would come and go; promotions; troop movements; evacuations; and yet somehow, certain individuals seemed to always just be there, no further than a comm call and a blistering argument away.

No longer.

The personnel status update report on his screen had changed all that.

The truth was, he had singularly failed to predict just how this particular status update report would affect him.

That's not to say that it hadn't been anticipated - an individual's past behaviour provided plenty of insight into predicting future outcomes, and Prowl had _plenty_ of data on this individual. The likelihood of survival until peacetime in this particular case had, in retrospect, always been markedly low.

And yet, the inevitable outcome had still caught him by surprise.

He'd written so many of these reports before - thousands, probably tens of thousands over the course of the war. Two hundred and seven, in fact, in the last few joors alone, all done with his usual efficiency and poise. But somehow, this one was different.

In terms of effects on the Autobot cause, there were far more significant individuals among those two hundred and seven. He had paused briefly over those entries, calculating potential effects on morale, and the correct response to adopt in order to channel that shift in mood into something useful.

It was well known, for instance, that he had worked with Ratchet since almost the beginning of the war. He was well-liked among the troops, and so when composing the section of the report pertaining to him, he'd been sure to add a 'personal' comment, acknowledging the years of service and skill that the old medic had provided, and the debt the Autobots still owed him. It was expected, after all.

Likewise, the entry for Rodimus had required careful thought. In the end, he had settled on composing a slightly wistful eulogy on a promising young leader, lost before his time. He found the end product darkly amusing - the maverick had delighted in upsetting his carefully crafted plans and strategies in life; fitting, then, that his death could finally become a somewhat useful tool in one of the most delicate situations he'd had to manage in millennia.

Others, like Lockstock and Spoke, were popular enough to make a comment on their passing necessary, though thankfully they would not be expected to be as 'heartfelt' as Ratchet's, or as inspiring as Rodimus'. Others had not warranted the personal touch at all, reduced to a simple status update.

This entry had been pushed to one side, delayed and moved to the bottom of the pile, until it was eventually the final entry required to close off the entire incident report. 

There was so much to say.

He had no idea what to write.

"Hey."

Startled, he looked up. Jazz leaned in the doorway, regarding him coolly.

"Y're pretty distracted. It's not often I can get the drop on you."

"You did not 'get the drop on me'. I am working."

"Hmph. Incident report for the Lost Light?"

"Correct."

"A lot of good mechs died that day."

"I am aware of the statistics."

"Some mechs might've been upset to see that ship go down. Especially given who was on it."

Veiled statements were a regular fixture in any conversation with Jazz. Habit ingrained over millennia seemed to make it impossible for the saboteur to just come out and say /anything/ directly. The trick was deciphering what he was really saying without letting slip any more than necessary in return.

Most times, he found the verbal thrust and parry refreshing. There were not many Autobots with the patience and quick-wittedness to spar with him on an intellectual level, much less the inclination, and he revelled in it when the opportunity arose. Behind the lazy smile and drawling voice, Jazz hid a mind easily as sharp and deft as his own, and a unique appreciation of Prowl's rank and the responsibilities it came with. They had played this game so many times that they practically had their own private language now, all intonation and posture and inferred meanings.

Today, though, he just found it irritating.

"There were several high-profile Autobots on its roster. Are you referring to any one in particular?" 

Jazz had been out of favour with High Command for some time now, ever since that unfortunate incident on Earth. Certain facts about the Lost Light - particularly its non-rostered passengers - were not things he should have been privy to. Being Chief of Special Ops, though, seemed to be a way of life that couldn't be dropped with a mere demotion.

Jazz tilted his head, amused. "You tell me, mech." Jazz-speak for _I know all about Overlord. That's not who I'm talking about._

Prowl rolled his eyes, unimpressed, and Jazz laughed. In the past, this would have been his cue to enter the room fully - to drop into the chair with a fluid grace, putting claim to the room with an easy sprawl and a knowing grin. Today though, he held back, some tiny clue in Prowl's body language warning him that the invasion would not be tolerated this time.

Being read so easily was still disconcerting.

"So have you figured it out yet? Why the ship blew?"

"It appears to have been an unfortunate accident. There is not a great deal of evidence to go on, and only limited resources to devote to an investigation." 

Jazz nodded sagely. "I read ya. Not like the good old days back in Mechaforensics, is it?"

Prowl narrowed his optics. Ah. So that was who Jazz was driving at. Venting subtly, knowing Jazz would easily read the cues in his body language, he picked up a datapad and skimmed through the latest sit-rep from Sideswipe.

"That was the past. Our priorities must be for the living now." _I don't know what you think you know, but the speculation is unwelcome._

The casual dismissal went unheeded. Prowl was not foolish enough to think it went unnoticed. 

"You certainly seem to have plenty to keep on top of," Jazz agreed, gaze flicking to the main workstation, and Prowl realised that his avoidance of it had been noticed. Damn it.

_I know he meant something to you, once._

Prowl glanced at him over the top of the datapad. "Cities like this one do not run themselves," he replied mildly, but there was an undercurrent of anger now. _You are breaking the terms of our agreement. I will not discuss personal relationships with you._

"So - does that mean you're gonna be holed up in here the entire time you're off-duty? Or can I talk you into taking a bit of down-time with the rest of us?" _I thought this one time, you might want to make an exception. You have feelings, even if you don't acknowledge them._

The datapad was placed firmly on the desk. Prowl fixed Jazz with a cool stare. "Did you come here for a reason? Besides simply wishing to be annoyance?" _I am warning you. Cease this, or you will regret it._

Jazz frowned. "Nah. I guess not."

"Then I find my patience is wearing thin. And unless I am mistaken, you no longer have any duties among Autobot High Command, therefore you have no business here."

The blue visor flashed, crystal hard and brittle. _Message received, loud and clear._ "Yes sir, commander."

He watched Jazz leave with narrowed optics; but the anger subsided as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him with only a dull ache. Part of him regretted the hurt he had caused - Jazz was, after all, one of the few that he still considered a friend. 

Their relationship was complicated, but in a way almost deceptively simple. The strictly casual nature of their off-duty activities was soothing and reassuring to them both, providing a much-needed outlet without any tricky emotional entanglement. They danced around each other at a carefully calculated distance, neither willing or desiring to come closer. They both knew the consequences of that, and neither wanted any part of it.

Or so he had thought. For Jazz to be willing to breach their boundaries, to risk upsetting the delicate balance in order to attempt to offer him comfort... 

There was a perceptible weakness there, a vulnerability, and he did not want to consider which of them it stemmed from.

Better to drive him away now than to risk... this... again.

He turned back to the workstation.

 

Outside, several thousand individuals clashed, each one of them busy little lives with their own affairs and entanglements knotting them together like string.

In his files, two hundred and seven completed reports lay still and silent, the strings cut.

On the screen, one empty report stared back at him accusingly, judging him.

 

He could compute eight hundred moving objects and their direction of travel.

It wasn't enough. 

It was never enough.

 

The cursor continued to blink.

 

Try as he might, he couldn't save everyone. He'd known that from the beginning. To think that way was to court madness.

Even with his position in High Command, his sphere of influence was all too limited. He couldn't afford to play favourites; the balance was too delicate, with far too much at stake to risk wasting his influence on protecting relatively insignificant pieces on the chessboard. The bigger picture was what mattered, not individuals.

 

Still - he had thought - maybe, just maybe - the percentages had been low, but not zero - he had _hoped_ -

 

His hand clenched on the edge of his desk. The pistons in his lower legs hissed softly. His left doorwing flicked once.

 

Enough of this. Dwelling on the past accomplished nothing.

He tapped the final key, locked his workstation and strode from the room.

As he exited the building, the database update scrolled across the bottom of his HUD.

_**++cf. 'Lost Light' incident report** _   
_**++Designation:** Tumbler [aka 'Chromedome']._   
_**++Status updated:** Killed In Action_   
_**++Comments:** None._

And if his lips pursed tighter, or his frown was deeper, well - who was left to notice?


End file.
